Dreams
by TaffyButt
Summary: John has a nightmare and Sherlock comes to comfort him. Short and sweet.


_In which John has a nightmare and Sherlock comes to comfort him..._

_Unashamedly using the lines from Reichenbach just to get some of my feels out. It's such a terrible ending, but I don't like soppy things that much, so I may be clouding my own judgement._

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><p>He could hear the guns firing, the explosions booming inside of his head. Tossing and turning, the sweat pouring from his furrowed brow, John Watson's dream woke him from his slumber violently.<p>

As he sat up straight in his bed, blankets thrown from him and mattress damp, he realised that Mycroft might have been a little bit wrong. Perhaps the war did haunt him, if only just a little.

The thought barely had time to cross his mind before he heard creaking and footsteps. Had he woken Sherlock up? God, he hoped he hadn't screamed…that would be embarrassing.

Maybe he thinks I'm in trouble? Maybe he thinks I've hurt myself? Maybe he'll think I'm weak for having silly nightmares about the past? Maybe I should just get back into bed and pretend to be asleep…to avoid all of the confrontation.

Deciding on the latter, John picked up the blanket from the floor and silently lay back down, closing his eyes gently and trying as best as he could to slow his breathing. He had only just managed to reach a convincing slumber rate of breaths when Sherlock opened the door. Without knocking, of course.

"John…are you awake?" It was hard not to answer to Sherlock, especially not when he had taken the effort to sound concerned, which took a lot of effort from Sherlock. But John had looked at his alarm clock before feigning his sleep and it was three in the morning. Whatever concerns Sherlock had could be discussed the next morning over breakfast.

Sherlock came further into the room, and John could pinpoint his location by gauging how many footsteps he'd taken. He reckoned he was close enough to the side of the bed now to see John's face. And he was getting closer, moving almost silently until he was right next to him and John could feel his presence.

"John…are you alright?"

There was a long pause as John tried to remain calm and still while Sherlock was obviously surveying the situation. He had clearly fallen for John's act (to John's surprise) and bent down to sit on the bed. John moved a bit, almost overacting his stirring. Whilst he cursed himself for trying too hard, he felt Sherlock's hand touch his brow and move across it, down his face and behind his ear. John focused completely on remaining neutral, but his heart sped up a bit, not too much, but enough that he thought it would cause suspicion.

The hand moved to John's neck, where it lay for a while. He feared Sherlock was checking for a stronger pulse, but the touch wasn't clinical at all, it was…soothing.

Moving back up to his forehead, the fingers began to run through his hair, stroking it gently.

"Oh John, you're a brave soldier. I'd be worried if it hadn't affected you at all, you'd be a machine…and we couldn't have that, not both of us. At least one of us has to remain as human as possible."

John could feel his heart flutter, his breath started to catch in his throat, shudder, and fall. Any moment and the act would be broken, creating an awkward silence between the two of them from which neither could recover, ruining this moment of sheer perfection. His only option was to shift around a little bit, recuperate while he made his move. But before he could, Sherlock leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead.

It was warm, and perfect. He could have sworn his heart stopped for just a moment before beating steadily faster. His eyes squeezed shut, no longer appearing natural, but by this time, Sherlock had stood up from the bed and was pulling the sheets around John, tucking him in before stroking his hair once more and heading for the door.

"Sweet dreams doctor." And he closed the door gently.

John opened his eyes and sighed into the darkness, pulling the sheets up close to his neck and gripping them in his fists whilst smiling wider than he ever thought possible.

As he closed his eyes to return to sleep, John Watson's thoughts were no longer of the war, of the past, but of the future.


End file.
